Elisha Rex (12 page)

Thunder smacked at his skull with a jolt he could feel. His skin thrummed with it, his bones ached, and Elisha flinched. Imagine God's chosen king finished by a stroke of lightning from an unnatural storm. A fitting end. He swallowed, struggling to master his breathing as the oppressive sound tremored around him. Then it dissipated, and the blow did not fall.

The clouds roiled and a man emerged from the slanting rain. Elisha took a deep breath and approached, his boots squelching in the mud while the other man made no sound at all. The young man's features slowly resolved, solidifying from the drops, although the rain still streaked through him, his face formed of streaming water.

“You.”
Sundrop's lips curled, and Elisha wondered suddenly how old he was. The gray of his face and the ruffling of his colorless hair against the rain made him ancient, while the anguish of his eyes made him a child, helpless with grief.

Elisha took another step. He wanted to reach out but only spread his hands and spread his patience to the falling rain. “You loved her,” Elisha breathed.

“You are with Death,”
the clouds spat against his ears.
“What do you know of love?”

“Do you think that love never dies?”
The answer seemed flippant, even tempered with his memories of Brigit, and he was not surprised when the rain slapped his face.

“She died for you!”
it howled, stinging his skin with sudden ice.

“God knows I would have saved her.”

The sky grew less gloomy as they spoke, as if the clouds lessened, although the patch of darkness lingered on the right-hand side, just past the bridge, soaking into the thatch and pounding on the sign that marked the accursed inn. The sign of the Lamb. That irony stung at the back of Elisha's eyes, and he bowed his head. He recognized the place from Chanterelle's sending, her father's establishment, where she learned to love the earth because it could hide her from the groping hands of the customers her father sold her to. Chanterelle helped Elisha to understand his affinity with death, and she came to his aid when he struggled against Morag in the New Forest. Then Morag had hunted her down, slew her, and used her ashes to lay a trap for Elisha in turn. Elisha's fists clenched.

“I'm doing it—sending the rain back to Essex, for the earth. Are you through now?”
Sundrop's touch was a lash of pain. The rain felt raw, seared by screams and weeping.

Elisha winced, his healing instincts drawn and helpless.

“I won't harm you,”
Sundrop's voice cracked, his presence rippling uneasily through the rain.
“She would not want you hurt.”

Elisha radiated calm and comfort.
“You knew her before she was a magus.”

Sundrop's gaze snapped back to him.
“She loved the gardens, always. Those trees—she planted them.”

A row of apple trees impossibly dense with fruit stood along the riverside, nurtured by one who loved the earth and all that it could give. The rain fell more gently there, a patter on the rich, green leaves. Elisha's chest felt tight.
“Who were you, back then?”

The rain wavered in patterns on the ground, then a shaft opened in the rain, drawing Elisha's eye to the opposite bank, to the millwheel churning in the running stream.
“Jerome, the miller's boy.”
And a whisper so faint it barely reached his skin,
“She would never let me touch her. Even to dry her tears.”

Elisha watched the rain caress the apple trees. The earth and the rain and the things that grew between. It was the kind of tale they told after feasting at the Tower: a tragic maid and her true love. Elisha thought back to when he'd first met Sundrop. Had she known that he had made himself for her?

“I'm sorry,”
Elisha murmured.

“So what?”
Rain lashed back at him.
“You regret befriending her? Making her a target for your enemies?”

Elisha let himself grow numb to the cold. How long had it been raining here? Sundrop must be exhausted.
“They already wanted her, Sundrop. She had been listening, and they knew.”
Even such an able spy was no harm without a master to report to, or at least, an accomplice to spread the word.
“Who did she tell?”

Stalking into the rain, nearly vanishing, Sundrop paced then returned, his face clearer this time.
“Rye. Who is with crows.”

But the crow woman clung to her own. She wouldn't reveal her friend to the mancers.
“That doesn't—”

“Parsley is Rye's brother. Parsley is for hire—for anyone's hire. I had not known how hard he was.”

Parsley, the iron magus. Whom Mortimer called “Farus.” Who killed a man at Elisha's door, on behalf of the French.
“Did Parsley sell her to the mancers?”

“How can I know!”
Sundrop howled, and the storm clouds blew up overhead. Elisha's hair tingled.
“He's the one person I cannot reach, who flees the threat of rain.”

And so he besieged the enemy he knew. The sign of the lamb rattled dangerously overhead.
“I can help you find him.”

“Why? We cannot even trust each other, we who should stand together!”
Sundrop flung wide his arms and thunder rolled. Elisha could feel him reaching through the air.
“What do you want from me?”

“Your power could be more than this, Sundrop
.
Your grief is better spent against the men who killed her, and the cause they work for.”
He steadied his emotions and let his presence shine with his urgency.
“I want your help against the French. With your kinship, you can herd them where we want them to be. We can break their invasion before it begins.”

Sundrop wheeled to face him.
“And you can force the iron mage out of hiding. He will not come if he senses me near.”

“Then you must let this go, Sundrop, and join me as a man and not a magus.”

“Like great Cnut, oh mighty king, you think you can command the tide.”
The rain warmed to a summer's shower.
“It just might work, oh mighty king, if I am at your side.”

Elisha smiled at the return of Sundrop's poetry. Then a rumble gathered over them, and Elisha retreated, his retainers falling in around him as his boots struck the muddy street. A tremendous crack smote the sky, with a sizzle that stood up the hairs at the back of his neck. Lightning struck the inn, its glow casting their shadows hard upon the rain as the thunder shook the sky. Elisha whirled back. Too wet to catch fire, the thatching collapsed inward, puffing smoke from the gout of flame that took hold in the heart of the inn.

Sundrop staggered away from the smoldering ruin, laughing. “May God have mercy on the lamb!” he cried, then pointed at Elisha. “Lead on, oh mighty king.” He swayed, and Elisha caught him, the rain solidifying in his arms to a pale young man. With its master's collapse, the rain dispersed, leaving an echoing silence and the scent of burning.

O
n their return,
with Sundrop installed in a fine room in the Tower's guest quarters, not far from Duchess Allyson, Elisha summoned Mortimer. The man entered with a cautious step, darting his glance about as if fearful of the king's wrath, but his presence hummed with a suppressed energy that reminded Elisha of the battle-hungry crows.

He offered a perfunctory bow and knelt stiffly. “What is your will, Your Majesty?”

“I don't believe we've had a chance to talk, Mortimer, since I took the throne.”

The lord's posture stiffened. “No, Majesty, I don't suppose we have. And as much as I appreciate your attention to my humble self—”

“You and Alaric always seemed to have lots to talk about.”

Mortimer raised his chin to meet Elisha's gaze. “Indeed. God rest his soul.”

“Amen,” Elisha replied, matching Mortimer's blank expression. “For one thing, I need to speak with you about your choice of . . . friends? Rather, Farus isn't anyone's friend. More of a tool. Or maybe a weapon.”

They regarded each other coolly, Mortimer's presence revealing the humming nervousness beneath his guise. Then Mortimer said, “Have you seen the royal menagerie? It's really quite interesting, especially for those who are not widely travelled. It's rather noisy, I admit. One must speak carefully to be heard. Perhaps I can show it to you this evening?”

“I'll look forward to that,” Elisha said, dismissing him and watching him stride out the door, a pair of his servants coming to meet him. Elisha's entourage—Ufford, and a couple of guards and pages—lingered nearby, but not close enough to give the appearance of listening. No wonder Mortimer suggested they go to hear the lions roar.

During a long day spent reviewing and responding to petitions of various sorts, Elisha contemplated his position with the barons and the inquisitor's homily about heresy. “Ufford? What can we do about the exceptions to the law against torture?”

“Exceptions, Your Majesty?” The wild eyebrows formed a ridge.

Elisha leaned forward. “Witches, heretics. If the archbishop had not spoken up when he did, I might have been taken for a witch myself. If he were not as powerful as he is, he might have been claimed a heretic.”

“Such crimes fall under church jurisdiction, and the law is confusing regarding their prosecution.”

“Then I think it is high time we sorted that out.”

“Very well, Your Majesty. I shall have the clerks begin compiling the law for your examination.” He gave a short bow and went to do the king's bidding.

Elisha gathered a few companions for dinner to introduce Sundrop, although the rain-magus had little to say and looked ill-at-ease through the meal, even after apologizing to Allyson. He glanced often to the windows, perhaps hoping for a storm.

Randall allowed his wife to sit between them, she dividing her attention between Elisha, and her husband. She appeared fully recovered, while the duke's round face looked haggard. “The bombards should be there in another day and a half, though I warrant the local population will be a bit concerned about the number of men descending upon them. We'll make use of the higher ground toward Dover, if we can get the fleet aimed in that direction.” Randall raised his eyebrows at Sundrop, who merely dipped his head.

“He's still weary from the last few weeks,”
Elisha sent to Allyson, with a touch on her hand.

“Will he be capable of what you want?”

“I think so,”
Elisha replied, but watching the young man toy with his goblet, he wasn't sure. Sundrop was, quite literally, out of his element. Randall and Allyson looked alert, present, but their clothes began to hang a little loose, their eyes always haunted. He, who was with death, must seem the most lively of the bunch. Aloud, he said, “I wish we could have this over already.”

Sundrop spoke up. “If need be, across the narrows of the Channel, I can just reach the coast of France. I can sweep the clouds away. I'll need a place to send them, of course.” He wafted his hand above the table as if drawing up the rain. To their startled faces, he said, “I am not feeble or infirm.” His long fingers stroked down the grain of the wood. “It's just that she was my purpose. She is the reason that I am this.”

Allyson's eyes brimmed over with tears. She pushed back from the table, her chair clattering to the floor as she turned away. Giving a little bow, Randall hurried after her, leaving Elisha and Sundrop at the table. The rain magus blinked at him then leaned back and popped a grape in his mouth, his gaze once more drifting toward the window.

A knock resounded through the room. Elisha pushed back as Pernel bowed into his presence, followed by a man in Mortimer's livery. “If your majesty is prepared,” the stranger said, bowing as well.

“Yes, thank you.” Elisha rose. “See you all on the morrow, then.”

Sundrop, too, stood up, that light returning to his eyes. “Remember Daniel and the lion's den,” he said, trailing after Elisha and his guide as they went down. Pernel and two soldiers fell in with the king. Once outside, the rain magus turned to a different path, but Elisha could feel him fading as the air grew moist, until he would be once more cloaked in mist as if he, too, rose up off the river.

Elisha paced the stones between the walls, the guards above giving slight bows if they noticed him. For tonight, the men at the outer barbican—including the menagerie's keepers—would be Randall's, watching out for him, witnessing whatever Mortimer might reveal. Eerie calls and soft growls filled the air as they emerged from the inner gate, along with an odor of animals, something between a barnyard and a slaughterhouse. Crossing the moat, they descended the stone staircase that circled the base of the outer gate, to an open iron grate where Mortimer's man bowed again. Lord Mortimer waited there, glancing at Elisha's trio of followers, arching a brow as he faced Elisha.

“Wait here, would you? I shall escort his Majesty,” Mortimer announced.

Mortimer's servant gave him another bow, and Elisha nodded to his men to stay as well: he would get nothing from Mortimer without privacy. Rather than lurk on the narrow stairs, the servants retreated a little to the top of the stair and settled on the embattled bridge overlooking the moat. Above, the guards leaned down, watching. Good.

With a broad grin, Mortimer, too, bowed. “Come, Your Majesty, see a most unusual part of your wealth.”

“Thank you.” Elisha extended his senses as he stepped through the arched door into the half-round well at the base of the tower, and the smell of unfamiliar animals grew stronger. Elisha searched for signs of deflection, for Farus, the mancer's spy, but cold iron lingered all around them, making it hard to look for the man who devoted himself to the metal. Another drawbridge loomed overhead, a dark stripe through the sky over the higher rank of animal cages, now empty for the evening. In the city above, first one, then another, and finally the entire bristling forest of church spires began tolling the hour. With a rattle and groan, the drawbridge rose ponderously up, sealing the tower for the night and lifting the darkness of the menagerie below. Elisha blinked, his eyes adjusting to another change in light. A white shape loomed at him from the back of a dark cage—a huge, white bear that ambled forward and sniffed.

Elisha drew back from the big, black nose, catching his breath, his heart drumming a little harder. Bear skins adorned a few of the duke's chambers, but the bear alive and in the flesh filled most of its stone enclosure, the bars allowing its muzzle to protrude. After a moment of sniffing, it returned to the back and dropped its great bulk down onto its belly, its stubby tail touching one side of the cage while thick, black claws scraped the other.

“A gift from the King of Norway, a noble tradition that began almost a hundred years ago,” Mortimer said. “They have white bears often in their lands, perhaps because of the snow.”

“I see,” said Elisha faintly.

“You should come hunting more often, Your Majesty, to get used to the great beasts.” Mortimer flashed him a hard stare, then gestured grandly to the next cage where a pair of sleek, spotted cats as big as Thomas's dog lounged and licked their paws. “Leopards. For King Henry, of course. These two are female. The male is here—” He backed up as he spoke, leading Elisha onward, then flinched a little. As Elisha came around the buttress, he, too, stopped short. The great leopard sat just inside, rubbing his huge spotted head up and down against a pair of iron bars, ears flattened to either side.

Mortimer laughed, but the sound echoed, brittle and high. “There was an elephant, I understand, as big as a house, and they built a special stable for it, but the beast died and had to be buried there instead.” They moved around the curve, out of sight of the entrance, with the bulk of the gate tower between them and the moat. A troop of monkeys bounded about their enclosure, whooping and screeching. “So,” Mortimer began, “you wished to speak to me.”

“Alaric thought he could trust you, my lord. I think he was wrong.”

“I am wounded.” Mortimer pressed a hand to his heart. “Not as you were wounded, of course, Your Majesty,”—a smile—“but, unless you were much closer to his highness than I imagined, I don't see what basis you have to say such a thing about me.”

“You lied to him about the attempts against me.”

With a tip of his head and a little frown, Mortimer said, “I can see that you would not trust me. In fact, I am surprised you wished to speak to me at all, and under such circumstances.” Close by, at Mortimer's back, something roared, and they both paused.

“You took a shot at me with a crossbow. I suspect that was a lucky thing—you saw me and took the chance. And everyone was meant to believe the Frenchman who died at Dunbury was killed instead of me.”

“I've admitted that as well.” Mortimer spread his hands. “At the time, you did not seem to me a person of great consequence. Circumstances have changed, of course, and they may yet change again.”

Elisha stayed his words with a turn of his hands, his scarred palms outward, drawing Mortimer's gaze, the lord frowning, then his face clearing with a little catch in his throat.

“Farus did what he meant to do.” One of the leopards gave a breathy growl that settled into harsh panting. Elisha took a step closer to the tower wall. “You wanted him to kill me as well, but he killed the Frenchman, and you concealed that fact from Alaric. You'd rather have your prince believe you responsible for a mistake than to think the Frenchman was important. Why?”

“You are right about something.” Mortimer tipped his head in invitation and started walking again, leaving Elisha to catch up. “The crossbow was a lucky moment, and I couldn't pass up the chance.” He glanced back. “But the Frenchman's death was an unfortunate accident. Do you plan to punish me now that you are king?”

The monkeys hooted as they passed by.

“Tell me about the Frenchman,” Elisha snapped as he caught up.

“But you should still see the lion, Your Majesty. It's quite the finest specimen here.”

“I don't care.” Elisha caught his arm forcing Mortimer to look at him, forcing contact. He wanted to feel the lie. “Your henchman killed a member of the French ambassador's staff, a member of the French king's household. You knew it, and you covered it up. Why?”

“Why not ask me?” A figure pushed away from the last cage and straightened, a cold presence, until now indistinguishable from the metal bars of the cage itself.

“Farus! Thank you for joining us.” Mortimer shook off Elisha's hand. “Yes, it does seem as if you could answer the king's questions better than I.”

“Seems to me he already knows enough, my lord.” Farus tossed something back between the bars and the roar echoed again. The lion pounced forward, dense, black mane swirling about its tawny face, claw-spiked paws the size of maces pressed against the bars. Bars of iron.

Elisha swallowed. “Farus doesn't work for the French, Mortimer, he works for darker forces.”

“We shall be rewarded in Heaven for the restoration of a godly monarchy,” said Mortimer.

“No. His true masters are using you to steer this kingdom into madness. The French are already a part of it.”

Farus glared down at them from the stone lip that held the bars. “The time for talk is over.”

“I am sure you are correct, Farus.” Mortimer took a few steps closer, then swung to the side, just at Farus's shoulder.

The iron-magus placed his hand up, measuring it against the lion's paw, then he raked the pads with his cold, hard fingers, spattering blood.

The lion roared again, its gaping mouth fronted by teeth as sharp as swords. When Farus casually turned the nearest bar, bending it aside like a chandler shaping wax, Elisha ran.

The lion gave a different cry when its wounded paw touched ground; it would attack Farus first, wouldn't it? Elisha skidded to a halt at the other side of the curve. Men shouted overhead, but the gate under the stone arch stood closed—along with the other grate at the top, from the furious shouting. Elisha shook it, but the gate didn't move. Taking a step back, he glanced up at the top of the stone wall overhead. Too high for an easy escape. The bars, then. Elisha set his hand to the grate, forcing himself to breathe more carefully, to focus. A bit of rust, a hint of death, and the bars would fall before him.